


seeing things invisible

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Porn With Plot, sort of!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagination! who can sing thy force?<br/>Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?</p>
<p>Phillis Wheatley, 1773</p>
            </blockquote>





	seeing things invisible

The wench looked flustered. “B-but this is my bed. I sleep here,” she stuttered

“Oh gods! I’m knackered and my bones can’t take another night on the floor. Believe me, all I intend to do is sleep so you don’t need to worry about your honour. As if I would be tempted…” he laughed bitterly at the thought. She was an ugly mare, all odd angles and height. Her freckled mangled face crumpled for a minute at his words but then she nodded brusquely and turned away.

He turned away to strip his wet layers from him, cursing as Brienne suddenly blew out the candle.

He cursed some more as he banged his way to the bed, only grateful that it was as wide as the room itself. He couldn’t see the girl but for a curled up heap at the other edge. Yawning, he turned the other way and enjoyed a moment of softness before the darkness came.

It was sometime beyond dawn when he awoke. The sun, watery as it was with winter coming, lit up the room, glancing and dappling the walls with reflections of the bubbled and uneven glass. Jaime sank into the warmth on his face, on his eyelids, the rainbow colours it created in his vision. He hadn’t felt warm for days. But this was more than a sun’s warmth he realised. There was a bulk against him. Human, living and gently breathing flesh curled up into him, like a baby next to its mother. Even without opening his eyes he could sense the tickle of her hair on his neck, unconscious finger tips lying softly on his chest. His legs— he stretched them slightly— had one of her own between them. He scoffed to himself; they couldn’t have been closer had they been fucking. He allowed his mind to wander over that thought for a second before banishing it as absurd. He half-wondered how to extricate himself without causing the wench to never speak to him again. This was a long journey and even her moral platitudes were better than nothing.

He opened his eyes, blinking in the sunlight. Her hair was nearly white in its rays. She smelled of sweat and horse and leather. It was unbearably familiar. He had recognised it all his life, on his men, on himself. He glanced downwards. Her shirt had slipped off her shoulder. It was broad and covered in freckles. Where they scattered all over then, he asked himself in a distracted manner, and not just brought about by the light and the air?

The blanket covered their legs, though he could feel her length, how closely her hips nestled into his. He swallowed hard, suddenly on edge. He had almost never woken up with someone as close as this. Not even Cersei, where they were only allowed snatched moments of pleasure. His cock had started to feel appreciative of the wench’s warmth. She must have sensed something; he froze as she stretched and murmured before settling back into sleep. The press of her against his groin had only increased however, and he tried desperately to think of something else. Her horsey teeth and hulking walk— and how blue and _innocent_ her eyes would be if only she would open them and look up.

How could she be so soft and gentle against him now, childish huffs of breath on his chest, and as hard as rock and about as mute when they would eventually leave? She was unbearable, with all her nonsense about oaths and nearly killing both of them in her quest to see them fulfilled. His mind flashed with nooses and undead things and a whimpering, kneeling Brienne looking at him in anguish. She had hardly thanked him for saving her, flinching from him as he reached up to her ruined cheek. He looked at the livid bite now. It was a shock to see it, he realised. It was always covered in the day though it looked to him as healed as it would ever be. It was the same with the noose marks on her neck, usually hidden with a scrap of cloth beneath her armour. Not now though, the puckered flesh still ridged with the imprint of rope. He wondered why she bothered in concealing the injuries. Surely she would know that he’d seen worse on the battlefield, wouldn’t she? She was that shy and mulish she would never answer him even if he asked why. It was bloody typical of her. How dare she be so bloody stubborn in her mission, how dare she order him to live when he had every right not to, how dare she take his sword and keep it with her even as it lured her into a trap they barely escaped. She blushed and huffed and stalked off, determined to find the right path in everything she did. He had tried to have it out with her, fought her with steel when he was still whole and mocked her mercilessly when he couldn’t. But she only turned the other cheek and remained true, bringing him along whether he wanted to or not. Fury, or something like it, ripened in his chest, blood coursing through his veins.

She stirred again, her forehead puckering. He angrily wondered what she would do if he pushed his hand beneath the blankets and along her legs, what her muscles would feel like as he hooked his fingers behind her knee and pulled it up, how long her toes would stretch down his calf and how strong her grip would be when he made her sit astride him. He could hear her astonished, scandalised gasps even now—

_Fuck_. His cock grew hard at the image of her so tall above him, hands on his chest, grunting and sweating and looking down with eyes wide and blown, telling him she was close, for she swallowed her moans even when his fingers dug into her hips and he drove into her hard, baiting her to cry out, to say his _name_. He couldn’t resist the realisation that her breasts would fit his palm exactly, that his tongue ached to scrape over her nipples, that the muscles beneath the soft skin of her belly would be hard but flutter under his touch. Cravings— to be the first to find her core and suck her nub until she was sopping wet and mewling with pleasure, the first to kiss every freckle and run his nose along her scars— weighed heavily on his chest. Something akin to the flare when he fought another, sword dancing in his hand, was what he felt about the possibility of being the first to make her know she did not have to hide herself, to make her feel like a woman ought to feel. His nerves pulsed and parried at the fantasies that played out in front of him.

He willed Brienne to wake and find herself so entangled, so close that she could not escape and he could really show her what her bloody legs, her bloody honour and her gods-be-good freckles could do to him. He sucked in a breath, hand unconsciously palming his cock as he sought some kind of relief. A moan escaped his thinned lips.

Brienne grew stiff in her sleep and then looked up at him, not quite awake, her confusion just preventing her from darting away from his touch like a startled deer. He snapped, pulling her face up to his.

“Wench,” he almost hissed.  “You—you—”

She cringed away from his palm on her injured cheek, but he held it there in spite of her hate. “What are you doing?” she asked fretfully, unshed tears glistening.

“Can you not feel me?” He ground his cock into her groin, watching the blood first leave and then rush back into her face and chest like the waves against the rocks in Lannisport.

“Don’t—“ she whimpered, nearly ripping herself away.

He caught her shoulder, wanting to hold her steady. “You drive me to distraction. You act as if I barely exist and then I wake with you buried into me, as if we should never part again.”

Her head bowed, hand across her face. “I cannot control myself as I should when I’m asleep.”

“Don’t I know it! I’ve heard your dreams. My name trips very well off your thick tongue it seems.”

She snapped her head round at that.

“Oh yes, don’t act all surprised. It is most entertaining.”

Her bottom lip quivered. “It is a joke to you.” It was a declaration, not a question, as if she could ever be seen in that way.

He didn’t want that. “No. _No._ Perhaps unexpected would have been a better word.”

Something sad crossed her face and she pulled herself away. Jaime sat up, his thoughts just now catching up. Cersei had always _known_ his love for her; he never had to reassure her of it but rather had it assumed and tested and then discarded. But Brienne was wary and unbelieving as a dog that had been thrashed once too often.

He saw his only chance was to act was now or it would never come again. He leapt out of bed, arriving between Brienne and the rest of her clothes. She looked lost and startled and oh-so-young. He would ask the questions and gaze upon her face for the truth. She could never lie. Her eyes were too pure, too loyal to her own character to ever be able to speak another version.

“You care for me?” he began. There was space between them, though Jaime longed to press her back into the shape his body seemed to find for her so easily.

She tilted her head, as if the weight was unbearable but gave one nod, blooming red again.

“You trust me?”

She went to remonstrate with him, mouth open in protest, blue sparking as if she could ever do anything but. He took a step closer. Gods, he wanted that generous mouth, those bitten lips on his. His stare lingered a fraction too long, sending his heart skittering. It pleased him more than it should that Brienne too was drinking him in, like she was dying of thirst in the desert.  

“You wish you were somewhere else?”

Her eyes clouded over; her head shaken determinedly, stubbornly.

“Then will you have me? A cripple with only the dregs of decency and honour?”

He barely finished his question before she was up before him, close enough to feel her heat, hear her laboured breathing.

“Will you have _me_?” she retorted, jaw tight.

That was it— he groaned, pulling her to him and kissing her. The heat of her mouth, her clumsy and eager tongue, and the way she gripped his arm was unbearably real, and all the better for it.


End file.
